Success Story!

Please welcome Sharon Reiss Baker to Monday Motivation!

Hi Friends! Please welcome my friend, Sharon, to the newsletter. Make a comment on this post, and I will add your name to a drawing for a copy of her gorgeous novel, Last Days of Moav! xo Sarah

"You never really understand a person until you consider things from his point of view... Until you climb inside of his skin and walk around in it." Harper Lee

Dear Writers,

I am a long-time reader myself, and I often revisited Sarah’s articles for their wisdom while working on my recently released YA historical novel, Last Days in Moav. It is a pleasure to be here, writing in a space created by someone who has meant so much to my own development as a writer.

My novel, set during Biblical times, features four sibling narrators, three living and one dead, who alternate telling their family story about loss, betrayal, love, and shaping their destinies. Many people have asked what it was like to write a debut novel with so many narrators. Why four? And how did I keep their voices distinct in my mind as I was writing? (Sarah interjects: I’m doing this now. PLEASE SEND HELP.)

From Two Voices to Three

I did not start the book intending to have four narrators. I intended only two: the main character Milcah and her twin brother Gidon, healers with a gift from Beyond who were both feared and sought after in their community. I was intrigued by the he-said, she-said possibility inside a relationship that was so entwined. They knew each other deeply, but that did not mean they saw the same events the same way.

The third narrator, their younger brother Avidan, arrived well into the drafting process. I had taken my time getting to know him and wanted to try a chapter in his voice, mostly as an exercise for myself. His younger voice offered a contrast to the teen voices, and his point of view could add things that were almost impossible when he was simply the cute sidekick at the edge of the scene.

I completed the first draft with those three narrators. I felt things were off to a good start, but I still struggled with a challenge familiar to all writers of historical novels: how to give the reader historical context without resorting to an info dump. I didn’t want to write a prologue explaining the background; I knew many readers would glaze over and skip it. Then I went on vacation, not intending to work and hoping the break would give me a fresh idea when I returned.

And Then Came Netanel

The idea came two days into my trip in the form of a fourth narrator. My original plan was for Netanel, the dead older brother, to appear only as flashbacks for the twins, his importance emerging through what they remembered. But one morning at 4 a.m., I woke with much of what would become the first chapter fully written in my mind, in Netanel’s voice. I raced to the Airbnb desk to get it down before it disappeared. And when I was done, I thought: hmmm, interesting.

I envisioned him as a rapha, a kind of spirit hovering between the world of the living and the world of the dead. He could provide historical context, go 20,000 feet up, and give us the bird’s-eye view. I thought it was a clever way to write a prologue without writing the dreaded prologue. Problem solved.

But when I got home, a wise mentor stopped me. If you are bringing him in, she told me, you have to bring him in all the way. He cannot just be convenient to you as a storyteller, doing the work that you cannot figure out how to do otherwise.

I resisted. He could be like the Greek chorus! I said. Why not? Sophocles did it. She was not buying it. As a nod to her objection, I decided he could open and close the book. But by the time my mentor got to the end of that new draft, she had almost forgotten the opening chapter. Netanel’s return startled rather than satisfied.

I had to choose: cut him and convey the information some other way, or bring Netanel in as a full character with a real stake in the story. I chose the latter, which required the harder work of learning who he was, why he was there, what he cared about, and how he changed everyone else.

That meant defining the rules of his story world. What could a rapha do? What could he not do? How much could he seeor affect? He could not simply float above the story, available whenever I needed him to explain something. He neededlimits, questions, and a relationship to the people he had left behind.

I also had to decide whether Netanel, who died at age ten though the story takes place eight years later, had grown and changed or remained fixed at that age. I chose growth, in maturity and in scope of vision. Raphas, I decided, could see history’s full sweep, speak directly to the modern reader, and reflect on things beyond the story-present. Netanel’s voice came from those choices, and from his yearning for his siblings and his wish to keep protecting them.

So What Did I Learn?

Looking back, here is the biggest lesson I took from writing multiple narrators: the voice came from knowing the characters deeply, not from tricky devices or verbal tics. Once I understood who they were, I did not have to stop and think, okay, now I am in Netanel’s voice. How does he sound again?

That kind of knowledge is not about random facts, like a character’s favorite ice cream flavor (unless ice cream matters to the story). It is about what they want and need, what stands in their way, and how they move through the world. For Netanel, that meant knowing what it meant to be a rapha; for Avidan, what he could understand as a younger child and what he could not.

Of course, this is also advice for writing any character, narrator or not. But multiple narrators require strategic use. I had to think not only about who each character was, but what each one could know, what each one would notice, and what would happen to the story if that particular character narrated that particular scene.

Sometimes the “wrong” narrator would have given away too much. Sometimes another could have told the scene accurately, but without the same emotional force. The challenge was not just making each voice distinct but choosing which consciousness could best carry each moment.

When I found both the right rhythm and the distinctive narrative voices, the alternating structure began to feel organic and fun. Voice and story worked together, and the characters were simply themselves, telling the parts of the story only they could tell.

Are you ready to reach? What can we learn?

When I have a story question, the characters always have the answer. I just have to get to know them more.

So let’s do that. Interview your characters. Sit back and let them speak. If one is really chatty, reimagine a big scene from their vantage point.

Then take it to the journal: what did you learn about your story? Your protagonist? YOUR POV?

Please thank Sharon for this wonderful essay by joining the conversation for a chance to win a copy of her book! Her AMAZING novel, Last Days in Moav, is on the shelves NOW.

Have a great writing week!

xo Sarah